


Favorites

by ThatOneWriter15



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Mild Language, POV Third Person, Romance, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 13:10:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18011519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatOneWriter15/pseuds/ThatOneWriter15
Summary: She and Sam are too wound up from a hunt to sleep, so they decide to watch some Netflix. Sitting so physically close is practically painful, what with the mutual, unspoken attraction between one another.





	Favorites

Their heavy, soiled boots clunk down the metal staircase. Home, sweet home.

She, Sam, and Dean had been on the road for six days. Cass flew in to help on the last two. When eliminating a vamp nest with over a dozen bloodsuckers, the more the merrier. Once she and the brothers finally tracked down the place, Cass was their invisible angel on the inside. With his provided intel, the three of them made it in, made it bloody, and made it out.

She and Sam toss their duffels on the map table, but Dean keeps his hitched over his shoulder.

“Must sleep,” Dean announces, not breaking stride.

“I’d recommend a shower first,” she calls to him, half-joking.

Dean halts to object, but before any words escape his mouth, she points to his right cheek. He paws at the caked-on blood--with a hand that is also covered in caked-on blood. He makes a small sound of disgust as he remembers just how dirty he is. “Messaged received.”

Sam chuckles as his brother exits. Then, he pivots toward her. “You turning in, too?”

“I, uh, I’m still pretty wired,” she admits. Between the adrenaline and all the coffee she’s had in the past week, she wonders if she’ll be able to rest at all tonight.

“Yeah, me, too,” Sam claims to her surprise.

She’s suddenly aware that the two of them are alone in the quiet of the Bunker, and she can’t get her brain to form a response.

He picks up the slack: “You up for a movie or some Netflix?”

She exhales, relieved the conversation is flowing again. “Yeah, sounds good.”

“Great.” His face breaks into a huge smile that makes her lips curl upward, too.

“I’m gonna grab a shower real quick,” she declares.

“Good idea,” he replies without thinking. The possible insult of his remark dawns on him, and he scrambles to make it right. “N-Not that you-- I mean-- We just--”

“Sam, we’re standing here covered in other… things’... blood. I think we both need one.”

He chuckles nervously, very glad she yanked his leg from a potential bear trap. He pulls in a breath, willing himself to stop spinning. “So, um, what do you say you meet me in my room in half an hour?”

Her heart ceases its steady thump. _Be cool._ “Y-Yeah. That works.” As soon as the words are delivered, her feet are in motion. She’s out of his sight just as the blush on her cheeks goes from a muted pink to a blazing red.

***

Still a little damp, he tugs on a clean pair of sweatpants and a gray v-neck t-shirt. Standing in front of the TV that faces his bed, he pushes buttons on the remote until Netflix loads.

She appears in his doorway, clean of monster grime, but riddled with nerves. He hasn’t seen her yet, and a part of her almost wants to dash down the hall. But she wants _this_ more.

“Hey,” she greets him.

She’s in a black t-shirt and those plaid-blue pajama pants he’s always liked. She tucks a strand of recently-blown-dry hair behind her ear. _God, she is just gorgeous._

He eventually remembers to speak. “Hi.” With the remote still in his grasp, he gestures to the bed. “Come on in. Have a seat.”

Her pace is slower than normal. She anticipated pulling up a chair and him claiming the bed for himself, but she should have known. Sam’s always a gentleman, making sure _she’s_ comfortable.

She settles in, unconsciously favoring the left side of the mattress. He… doesn’t go for a chair.

He rounds the bed to the right, sitting at its foot. One of his legs is tucked underneath him, and the other hangs over the edge.

“Anything in mind?” he asks, rotating a bit to make eye contact with her.

 _You are on the same bed as Sam Winchester. Dammit. What happened to “being cool”?_ She inhales, quieting some of the panic. _You are just two friends hanging out. Don’t make it weird._

“Well, I was thinking…” She smirks as he waits patiently. “ _Dexter_.”

He beams, just as she was hoping he would. “Really?”

“Well, you have been trying to shove it down my throat for--”

Sam raises an index finger. “Uh, _suggesting_ it. I’ve been _suggesting_ it.”

“ _Forcefully suggesting_ …” she corrects. He taps her nearby ankle with the back of his hand. “...it to me for how long now?” She pushes his knee with the same ankle.

“A while,” he admits, biting his lip.

She blinks hard, trying to ignore the appeal in his subtle action. “So, let’s get it out of the way,” she jeers with an eyeroll, but adds a warm grin afterward.

“Rude.” He turns his back to her, his cheeks growing hot. He queues up the serial-killer drama and pauses it right as the pilot starts.

Debating, Sam stills for a moment. _Just do it_. He slides up the length of the bed and settles against the headboard, beside her.

They’re not touching, but she releases a quick breath, praying to no one that he didn’t catch it.

“Ready?” His voice wavers slightly, and he hopes she didn’t notice.

“Let’s do it.” _MORON_.

Sam clicks _Play_.

She immediately decides to try and concentrate on the episode as much as possible. Otherwise, the heat radiating from his close proximity may actually cause her to melt.

He kind of wishes she’d chosen a movie or show he hadn’t seen before. Then, he could focus on following along with the new content instead of the intoxicating scent of her citrus body wash.

Dexter is choking some sucker within two minutes, and she almost cackles. “Gettin’ right to it,” she mumbles.

Sam’s too lost in his own thoughts to hear her.

A man’s victims--a few dead boys--are revealed. She sits up a little straighter, peering at the flat-screen-- _not_ at the toned torso less than a foot away.

Sam sneaks a peek out of the corner of his eye. She’s enthralled by the murdering vigilante. A rush of pride swells in his stomach, momentarily canceling out the butterflies.

“I’m a very neat monster,” Dexter professes to the audience.

“What a dick,” she remarks.

Sam laughs.

Feeling a little guilty for criticizing his beloved show, she gives Sam a slightly sheepish look.

“No, hey, let it out,” he encourages her.

They both shift at the same time and their shoulders brush. She freezes; he retreats.

 _Shit_.

 _Shit_.

Just like that, she loses her focus on the show. She notices his hands grasped in his lap. The tips of his fingers are growing redder by the second. It’s as if he’s trying to prevent himself from using them for another purpose. She allows herself to imagine some of the magic those hands are capable of. What she wouldn’t give to feel one cupping her cheek or holding her waist. Maybe she could have that. Maybe _he_ wants that, too. Before she can talk herself out of it, she closes the distance between their shoulders, gently pressing hers into the six-thousand muscles of his.

His eyes on Dexter admiring a mutilated body, Sam gulps. _There is no way this is actually happening._ He’s paralyzed. While he’d like nothing more than to wrap an arm around her and pull her closer to him, he doesn’t. _If this is what you think it is--what you’re hoping it is--you’ve got to take it slow._ He’s coveted calling her his for too long not to cherish every possible romantic second shared between them. Cautiously, he pushes the rest of his arm against hers, as if to say, “Yes, I want this, too.”

 _He responded. Holy shit._ Goosebumps invade her body at his long-awaited touch. _Okay, you gotta breathe._ She tries to get back into the episode, which is about over.

In a precinct briefing, Deb stands to share her idea of searching for refrigerated trucks, and she is an awkward nightmare. Sam finds some relief in that his stunned silence is not the most cringe-worthy thing happening in the room. “Oh, Deb…” he manages to get out.

“This is _painful_ ,” she comments, watching Deb drown, surrounded by cops. But she’s mostly just thankful for the opportunity to say something, to get his sculpted body out of her head for two goddamn seconds.

Too soon, the credits roll.

What now?

She has no desire to leave, to move even an inch.

“Next episode?” Sam ventures. He would do anything to keep her next to him. He wills himself to look at her, trying to plead his longing with soft eyes.

Before she can speak, she spots the fine sheen of sweat prickling at his temples.  


All at once, meeting her gaze proves too much for him, so Sam shakes his head slightly to “fix” his hair. His bangs fall forward before flying backward, out of his face.

 _He’s as nervous as you are._ It’s a combination of unbelievably adorable and delectably sinful. Finally, he gets his answer. “Episode two, it is.”

His focus still downcast, he reaches for the remote and gets the show playing again. After setting the device back on the nightstand, he drops his hand to his thigh. That’s when he observes how close _her_ hand is. Her palm rests against the sheet maybe six inches away. She wanted to stay; they’ve started the second episode. Maybe he could pull this off.

Eyes on the screen, but not paying attention, he slides his hand in her direction. Tentatively, he brushes his pinky against hers.

Her heartbeat doubles at his invitation. She wastes no time RSVPing and rotates her wrist so that her palm faces upward.

Effortlessly, he covers her hand with his. Their fingers intertwine. The pad of her thumb explores a callus near one of his knuckles.

Sam closes his eyes, not caring that he’s missing one of his favorite shows, because--at least for the next 55 minutes--he’s with his favorite girl.

**Author's Note:**

> A special thanks to Michele for the _Dexter_ suggestion.


End file.
